


Peel the Skin

by theCorvid



Category: DmC: Devil May Cry
Genre: Blood, Gen, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-29
Updated: 2019-11-29
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:27:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21529042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theCorvid/pseuds/theCorvid
Summary: Eighty years had passed since Sparda last heard from Mundus or received any new instruction, but finally he was hailed to put down his sword, come home, and acquaint himself with the new Hell. Food and luxury fit for royalty would be waiting for him there, as well as admirers excited to have the honour of pleasing him. Sparda was of simple wants, though, and all the carnal worship in Hell couldn't compare to a chance to visit his library again, or to feel the touch of his wife.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Peel the Skin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Auntarctica](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Auntarctica/gifts).



Lately, Hell was different.

The change was almost beyond words, especially for the billions of young demons who were born there and knew no other realm. To them, it must seem like a fever dream. Land that had been drenched in the smell of singed flesh and hair for at least hundreds of years, the stench of thousands of bodies burned to dispose of them time after time lingering in the soil, was now fresh and fed. Even grass was growing, though it was an unusual kind that ate the remnants of death, and would eventually wither and disappear once the bounty was depleted. It was downright bizarre, and most suspected it was temporary, like the land was resting up for a greater chaos. There was no second war coming, though, not for a very long time. The war in Hell was over as the devils that orchestrated it had moved on for the first time in anyone's memory. The great, fertile pastures of the human realm were just now beginning to bear their fruits after their violent cultivation, and for many, that opportunity was a good enough one that they dropped everything they knew and loved and left their home, stepping through the Hellgate with no intent to return.

Sparda, on the other hand, was more than willing to return. Eighty years had passed since he last heard from Mundus or received any new instruction, but finally he was hailed to put down his sword, come home, and acquaint himself with the new Hell. Food and luxury fit for royalty would be waiting for him there, as well as admirers excited to have the honour of pleasing him. Sparda was of simple wants, though, and all the carnal worship in Hell couldn't compare to a chance to visit his library again, or to feel the touch of his wife.

-

The change in the air as he arrived in Hell was distinct. The energy from the Hellgate clung to his skin, tingling, and he took a deep, steadying breath, shaking it off. The air smelled like life, fresh and nourishing. It was satisfying. The halls of Mundus' palace were more pristine than anything he had ever witnessed before, lit by gold flames that reflected from the unyielding obsidian surfaces and stained glass depictions of blood and glory, speaking "victory" with every whisper.

It was alien to Sparda to exist in a world that had found a resolution. The state of the realms had truly been reversed since he last passed through - he was constantly chasing the greener side, it seemed, but the stench of death came with him wherever he was sent. Even now as he walked the familiar path from the gate to Mundus' private halls, he left disgusting footprints. He didn't feel bad. He had earned the right to walk freely here, and see what he'd helped build.

In the hallway leading up to the throne room, one mosaic caught his eye. It depicted a battle's end, corpses crafted from coloured rock and bloody red glass, discarded weapons carved out of fine metal, and there standing front and centre, was a flattering rendition of himself, hand casually resting on the hilt of Force Edge, impaled through some poor, faceless soul's chest. He stopped to appreciate it, running one clawed fingertip over the miniature blade. It was flatteringly sharp.

"It smells as though you brought the battle here," Mundus spoke from the doorway at the end of the hall. His voice always travelled through the ground instead of the air. Sparda turned to him to take a low bow.

"My lord," he said, and then rose. "I came straight here."

He held a disciplined, straight-backed posture while two of Mundus' eyes bore into him, and the third seemed to pass right through him. "Sparda," he acknowledged simply. "It’s good to see you. Come."

"Yes, my lord."

-

Demonic pleasantries were… well, pleasant, to say the least. They sat, and Sparda sat silent as he watched his brother prepare the customary fruit. He peeled it, and sliced it down the middle with a razor-fine ritual knife, cutting into his own palm until his blood pooled and mingled with the blood of the fruit, running down into the small bowl below. The smell of the demonic concoction of hellfruit and king’s blood rose quickly into the air and filled the room, both rewarding and enticing.

Most of the customary rituals were a chore, but this one Sparda enjoyed very much. Mundus began to cut, collecting the liquid and dropping translucent, wafer-thin slices of the fruit into the bowl in a ritualistic process many, many times practiced.

“Barely a word has come out of you, Sparda,” Mundus remarked, snapping Sparda out of his trance. “You’ve been away much longer than this without coming back this exhausted.”

“This has been a different kind of war.”

“Mm.” The skin of the fruit crackled and wheezed in the bowl as the last good pieces were added, as if trying to escape as the mixture thickened. “Indeed it has.”

Mundus stood and came to Sparda’s side, and offered him what remained of the fruit - the hard stem. It represented the source of the king’s bounty, the king himself; Mundus offered it in his own bloody palm, a gift of power and of pleasure. Sparda leaned over with reverence and took the stem between his teeth, blood touching and clinging to his lips and tongue. His nostrils flared and his eyes rolled, the bright, hungry sensation rising and falling like breaths.

Mundus’ other hand came to the back of Sparda’s head, holding and pressing, palm pushing up until fresh blood stained his face. Holding him there, he watched as his brother chewed, and breathed, and chewed, and swallowed, and finally he released him. “When you leave Hell, you will be greater still,” he said, both in demand and promise.

Waves of bliss consumed him, buzzing and howling in his chest. Images flitted across his mind - rivers of blood, tangled husks, clawing nails and breaking bones, filling him with anticipation, and then a split second later, gratifying him, ebbing and flowing forever.

Speaking at this juncture was the hardest part. “Yes, my lord,” he managed as he collapsed against the back of his chair, and Mundus’ gratified smile was still in his mind when the world faded out.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm really sorry about the pacing. I'm warming back up to writing and this is the best I can do at the moment. It's going somewhere meaningful, but I can't promise it'll be good. It's niche though. Enjoy.


End file.
